Yes I did, I Wanted to Do it Very Badly
by gadgetgadget
Summary: "Maybe you should stop over-analyzing everything and just, for once, do something."  An unofficial companion piece to "It Has To Be Over".  Spoilers up to 1X03


Title: Yes I Did, I Wanted To Do It Very Badly

(it's Jess' version of that other one I wrote, It Has To Be Over.)

Rating: M

Warnings: Angst? Sex! Nothing too terrible, really.

Spoilers: Up to the wedding, 1x03

* * *

><p>It's late, and you're lying in bed, watching the shadows skitter across the ceiling and listening for the bursts of loud revelry happening several floors under your window. Despite the numerous glasses of wine you had at the wedding, to say nothing of all the dancing, you're completely awake.<p>

You decide to make a sandwich.

There's nothing else for it, really, at this time of night, and the house is completely silent aside from the general creaks and whimpers that the floorboards make as you steal across them towards the kitchen. Belatedly, you realize that there's a faint blue light shining under the door of Nick's room, and you can hear the quiet strains of canned laughter from whatever late-night television show he's watching.

You stop and stand, unsure whether to knock and invite a conversation you don't really want to have, or go back to bed and play yet another loop of everything that's happened to you lately through your head. Nick's probably lonely, you decide. You knock.

"Yeah?" Nick wants to know. He's sitting up in bed, pillows stacked up high against the headboard. It looks suspiciously like he might have been crying, but maybe that's just all the alcohol he consumed wreaking havoc with his complexion. He moves over slightly, making room for you in his bed, and hands you the remote when he realizes that he has no idea what he was watching. After some deliberation, you settle on some ironic late night shopping. You're not sure either of you could handle a narrative, right now. You point out some of the more ludicrous ideas gleefully, and try to goad him into buying a blanket-suit, but to no avail. Secretly, you'd kind of like one for yourself.

This is nice, you think, staying up late and doing something that could pass for cuddling if you squint at it in low light. It's been a while, and you remember doing this kind of thing with Spencer, once upon a time. It still hurts to think about, so you try not to. It doesn't really work. Damn that Wizard.

Nick's talking. He's not looking at you, but he's apologizing, again, for his antics at the wedding. You've already forgiven him. It's hard, having your heart broken. There's a pause, like he's waiting for you to say something meaningful. You look up at him. "Don't worry about it, Nick. Love makes us do crazy things." You know a thing or two about that, at least.

It's an uncomfortable thought, so you try to pay attention to the lady selling knives that are sharp enough to cut through other knives, although you're not quite sure why anyone would want to. You settle in to watch the endless loop of merchandise parade across the screen, and Nick's relief that you're not leaving is palpable against your side. Being alone with yourself isn't high on your priority list right now, either. When he puts his arm around you it seems natural to nestle in a little closer. This doesn't have to mean anything.

Your own feelings about Spencer are so muddled, it's hard to keep them straight; to distinguish between how you used to feel and how you feel now – it's extremely uncomfortable when you realize that they're not so different, most days. Yeah, maybe you couldn't ever figure him out, but somehow you loved him anyway. It used to be enough.

Neither you nor Nick has said anything in a while, and it becomes clear that the glow of the television has become a static backdrop for your mutually unpleasant thoughts. You reach across Nick to take the remote. It's suddenly much darker, without the television's warm glow.

Nick hasn't moved, hasn't retracted his arm from around your shoulders, hasn't seemed to notice that there's no longer a woman selling a promise of flawless hard-boiled eggs every time at the foot of his bed. You look up at him, take in his profile and wonder what Caroline could have possibly been thinking, giving him up. It doesn't seem right. Nick seems to realize that he's staring at nothing, and turns to face you. He's searching your face for something, and you think he's found it become he's leaning in. You can't quite believe this is happening, and not just because you can feel his sadness, rolling off of him in waves.

This is too much, you decide, and close your eyes. It's easier when you can't see his eyelashes, each in excruciating detail.

"This is a terrible idea," he says, and lifts one hand to cup your cheek. His words belie how gently he's touching you, as though you're something special. Maybe you are, but it hasn't felt that way lately. Maybe this is what you need, what you've needed all along. While having a random rebound with a stranger isn't exactly your speed, maybe this could be. Maybe you should stop overanalyzing everything and just, for once, do something.

"The worst," you agree, and close the distance between your lips and his.

This doesn't have to mean anything you tell yourself, over and over and over again, as you let him move you both down until his bed is below you and he's above. He leans in, slow and deliberate, and brushes his lips against your cheek. It's surprisingly easy to do this, and you're a little shocked when you realize the small moans trapped in your mouth are coming from you. Nick tastes like whiskey and wedding cake and you can't help the small shudder of want that goes through you when he all but crushes you against his chest.

It feels prudent to warn him, somehow, that you know what he's doing. It's useless to deny that you don't need it too, but it's really the least you can do. He makes a noise of dissent when you pull away from his lips. He firmly attaches them to your throat anyway, kissing and biting down the long column and back up again. It feels so, so good. "I can't be what you need," you whisper to him, and you're not sure he heard you, because for some reason your treacherous fingers are pulling your tank-top over your head and his eyes are firmly attached to what's no longer hidden from view. He's kissing you again, desperately, and you're kissing him back, rolling your hips under his and fisting your hands through his hair. He's running his hands up and down your sides, grasping your breasts and nuzzling into your neck. You wonder if he's thinking about Caroline and find you don't really mind if he is, because Spencer isn't far from yours. You can feel him, hard against your hip, and it seems fair to warn him again before tumbling headfirst into whatever this is going to be.

It takes a few tries to find a good rhythm, especially when you keep stopping to divest each other of your pajamas. It's a relief that you're both wearing so little, or else you might have found time for reality to set in. Nick's not helping, really, since he keeps getting distracted by whatever part of your body is closest to his mouth, and when he feathers kisses across your collarbones and down your chest it's all you can do to throw your head back into the pillows and lose yourself to feeling something other than reality of the situation. You're having trouble keeping your appreciative noises to a minimum, like when his stubble rubs against your skin, but so is Nick it seems, when you roll and grind your hips against him in a steady pattern. He's groaning, thrusting back against you and holding your waist hard enough to leave finger shaped bruises.

When he reaches blindly over and comes back with a condom, you have a choice to make. You take the packet from him, and hold it in your hand. Such a weightless little thing, and such a weighty consequence. When you meet his eyes, he's looking at you, really looking at you, and you're sure that the trepidation you see in his face is mirrored in your own. There's nothing for it, it seems, but honesty.

"We're just roommates," you tell him. He doesn't reply, and when you take his hand in yours, it's trembling slightly. You look him over, taking the opportunity for the first time tonight. He's quite handsome, although a little shorter and perhaps more present than you're used to. You eye the smattering of hair on his chest, the way it rises and falls, the birthmark on his right shoulder. His hands are slightly calloused, and small pieces of fringe are falling over his eyes where they've escaped his hair gel. You can feel his arousal, hard and thick and hot against you.

Suddenly it seems impossible to stop, and why would you want to, really? Nick seems to have taken your pause for dissent, so you are forced to take matters into your own hands, pushing him down and trapping him against the mattress with your body. You kiss his cheek, his chin, his neck, and lower. He relaxes against you, although you can practically feel him thrumming with anticipation. You remember the plastic contraceptive packet in your hand. It's now or never, and you've already established that the latter isn't an agreeable option.

It's been ages since you've been intimate with someone, and even longer since you've had to bother with something as plebian as latex, but it gives you a moment to steady yourself, ready yourself for the occasion. He holds his breath when you touch him, and enjoying the strangled noise he makes, you give him a few languid tugs before settling over and onto him. He lets you set the pace, and you do so, gratefully, rocking your hips atop his lap. Anchoring your hands on his chest, you wriggle and moan, trying to find that place that you used to know so well. Nick can't seem to decide where he wants to touch you, so he compromises by putting his hands everywhere all at once. It's a heady experience, this kind of worship, and you bite your lip and can't help laughing a little when Nick tries to muffle his groans into your breast.

One, two, three more thrusts and you're coming apart in his arms. He grasps your hips and helps you maneuver above him, and you spare him a smile before tipping your head back and letting the sensations overwhelm you. You can't remember the last time you felt like this, boneless and satisfied.

"Oh!" you cry when strong arms grip you and flip you into the mattress. You hitch a leg around Nick's waist and let him take charge. He's far less patient than you were, and holds tightly to you as he pistons in and out. This is a different kind of satisfaction, you decide, and raise your hips into his thrusts.

He's close, judging by the hapless sounds he's making into your neck. You can feel him pulsing in and around you, and you realize that you're not done yet, not with him holding you so firmly and gasping, growling, groaning.

"Fuck," he growls, and you're coming, writhing beneath him as he shudders his own release. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest, matching your own in fervor and intensity. He's a sweaty mess, his hair falling into his eyes and face flushed with exertion. You feel an unanticipated moment of tenderness, and place a kiss on his forehead. He looks surprised but lets you brush the hair off his face, before pulling out and away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and rubbing a hand through his hair. You hand him a tissue and he accepts it, turning away slightly as he makes quick work of the spent prophylactic.

He reaches across the chasm between you, and tugs a piece of your hair between two fingers.

"Hello Kitty panties, really?" It's the last thing you ever expected him to say, and you can't even begin to remember why you ever thought this would be a bad idea in the first place. Grinning from ear to ear doesn't seem at all exuberant right now, so you indulge yourself. Nick has a similar smile on his face when he meets your eyes, and you can feel your smile widening, involuntarily, across your face.


End file.
